


Hand in Unlovable Hand

by sevensilvermagpies



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Death, Found Family, Gen, Murder, Poison, Stabbing, hints of beau/yasha, i wrote this semi drunk, just... just murder, that last one is goblin mum and her boy, uhhh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:20:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28001556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevensilvermagpies/pseuds/sevensilvermagpies
Summary: He lets himself believe that when the time comes she will carve out his heart gently, that his hands will not shake as he takes hers in return, and that the earth will welcome them both. That on their grave there will be flowers.Orliam in talks machina ep c2ep21: its going to take me so many episodes to kill all of the might neinme: it will take me 40 tipsy minutes to write that exact thing
Relationships: Nott | Veth Brenatto & Caleb Widogast
Comments: 7
Kudos: 16





	Hand in Unlovable Hand

Jester is the hardest, so Jester goes first. She looks so peaceful sleeping on the hard ground somewhere along the road as they run from Zadash, arms clasped under her head as a makeshift pillow. The echoes of her kindness, her understanding, batter his conscience every moment until the deed is done, but the memory of Ikithon’s face looms large and terrible in his mind. The knife slips softly from his hand just like Nott taught him in the dark shadows of some alleyway six months back.

“In and out, nice and quick. One smooth movement. Twist it if you can.”

She doesn’t even realise it’s him, doesn’t wake up in time to heal herself, and now she won’t be there to heal the others. It punches a sigh of relief out of Caleb, one less complication - one less person who knows too much, who has the possibility of dragging too much out of him.

The dagger is too valuable to leave with the body quickly growing cold at his feet so he jabs two arrows into the stab wound and stands, roughly brushing guilt and lint from his shoulders. A hasty disguise, perhaps, but one that will hold up if their distraction goes the way it should.

From across the clearing Nott’s warning yell sounds, the dark shapes they spotted following them earlier now close enough to raise the alarm, and Caleb steps swiftly away from the body a few steps only to pelt back towards her as Beau stirs awake. Fjord is already pelting towards Nott's voice, and the bandits that will take the blame.

“Jester? Jester!!” His cries awaken the rest of them, Molly and Yasha spinning into battle half awake and terrified. Curling around the body, he prays can disguise it’s lack of breathing for a moment longer till the other’s crowd round and act as witnesses to his innocence.

“I can’t.. I don’t have healing...” Beau ends up pulling him away, his half tears real enough to dissuade her.

He says a few words as they mark a grave on the roadside. It is the first of many.

He does not mourn.

“Molly and Yasha have done nothing to us yet”, he argues some days later.

“Jester was the best of them,” Nott fires back, “but if you really want to wait until _he_ realises he can use them to find you, then do Fjord first. He’s already looking sideways.”

It’s half mistrust of that terrible accent which doesn’t quite ring true, and half the scent of saltwater which seems to trail behind him that Caleb knows poisons Nott towards the half orc, not his trust, or lack thereof, in them. But he nods anyway in absentminded agreement, stroking her hair slowly as they watch her potions brew together.

“A group is only as stable as it’s leader.”

They can’t pull off the bandit con again this soon, but they can pour a healthy dose of poison into his ale that evening, and a good mouthful of acid down his throat in the shitty washroom of a shitty pub some hours later. He chokes on his own blood before he can call for help, but he knows who took his future away from him, and that is something that Nott knows will bring her peace in the coming nights. If she thinks really hard, propped up on the crutch of whiskey, she can imagine he smiled before he went. At least that’s what she’ll tell Caleb.

Anything for her boy.

Two deaths so soon after a close encounter with the law is enough for Molly and Yasha to want to split ways. They think they can walk off into the sunset free of troubles, wash their hands of the ungainly mess that this group has become.

They get as far as their room. Their bags sit half-packed and inviting on the bed as Caleb steps over twin piles of ashes. Necessity has made death a comfortable coat, desperation has long left honour in the dust. Even a handshake can be deadly in this game, they should have known that; a seal of fate. Maybe they did. In another world it was a promise to protect them. But now, in this one, it is protection from them. 

Beau is last. She would be, they both think, the trickiest to kill. Familiar with empire tricks and distrusting of outside influence, but in the end they don’t need to do anything. They just need to ask for wine at the bar and see the clammy, pale sheen of Beau’s face as they are handed a bottle of Lionett.

The three of them get roaringly drunk, and stumble up into the rooms rented for the night. With every step Beau takes up the stairs she bemoans Yasha’s departure louder and louder. Caleb is grateful for the excuse of the wine to hide his mirth as she begs the gods to turn their apathatic gaze upon her love life.

In the end she does get to touch Yasha one more time, breathing in her ashes as she crumples onto the floor beneath the weight of both Molly’s swords. Caleb thrusts one high through the meat of her shoulder, almost pinning her to the floorboards, whilst Nott strikes low, slicing her hamstring and sending her toppling down. An inglorious end to an inglorious existence, Caleb thinks, pocketing their coin pouches as Nott sweeps the embers of Molly’s life into the fireplace.

He must have spent too long entranced in the soft swish of broom on wood, for he does not notice when it ends, only when the sharp hand of his little _Herzli_ slips into his and tugs him to his feet again like she has done so many times before. One day they will come for him, of this he is certain, and before that day comes he must bury himself beside her so they can never be parted - this one small sliver of kindness in a world that has chewed them both up and spit them back out harder and tougher and clinging to life with sharp claws and a burning grip. But for now he lets himself be selfish, and gives them time to run and hide in another tiny backwater town that asks no questions in return for no lies.

Lets himself believe that when the time comes she will carve out his heart gently, that his hands will not shake as he takes hers in return, and that the earth will welcome them both. That on their grave there will be flowers.

**Author's Note:**

> uhh yeah I wrote this in a very short timeframe at about midnight and you can tell.  
> maybe it will be edited at a later date maybe not, either way enjoy!
> 
> According to my 2 minute google search Herzli means little heart.


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